


Aida

by soulmate328



Category: Aida - Verdi/Ghislanzoni, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aen Seidhe (The Witcher), Bittersweet Ending, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frenemies, Inspired by Opera, Love/Hate, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, Plague, Politics, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-Canon, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Religious Fanaticism, Sad Ending, Scoia'tael (The Witcher), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Temeria (The Witcher), Tragic Romance, War, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmate328/pseuds/soulmate328
Summary: See? The angel of death,with shining wings, comes near,to bear us to eternal joysupon his golden wings.Above us heaven is opening.There, every sorrow ends,and there joy begins,the joy of immortal love.
Relationships: Iorveth & Saskia, Iorveth & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche, Vernon Roche & Ves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. It is rumored that Ethiopia dares once again to threaten our power

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by Verdi's opera Aida.  
> The chapter titles and the summaries are all lines from the opera.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RAMFIS (high priest of Egypt)  
> Yes, it is rumored that Ethiopia has dared  
> to challenge us again, threatening  
> Thebes and the valley of the Nile.  
> Holy Isis has named  
> the supreme commander  
> of the Egyptian armies.
> 
> RADAMÈS (young Egyptian general)  
> Oh, fortunate man!
> 
> RAMFIS  
> He is young and brave.

**1275**

Being one of the most famous deeds of the White Wolf, Geralt himself had recounted to Ciri a few times about the contract he took in Vizima, the one that involved a monarch, a princess and a monster, very much like the one concerning Ciri's own grandmother and parents. It wasn't the witcher's habit to boast about his past glories (that was mostly Dandelion's work), but since this one was tightly related to his experience after losing his memories, he later talked about that instance a little more in detail. For example, he strongly suggested that should Ciri ever plan to stay for a while in Vizima, she should definitely avoid the small tavern called The Fox and choose the more popular one called The Old Narakort, now the New Narakort, because the former's innkeeper was extremely hostile to foreigners.

It was at dawn when Ciri arrived in Vizima, leading her mare Kelpie across the Roper's Gate into the city. Two years had passed since Temeria became a vassal state of Nilfgaard, and the city had resumed her old prosperity, although still a little empty due to the losses suffered during the war. The tavern called The Fox mentioned by Geralt, however, didn't exist anymore; probably because of the bad business. The New Narakort still stood, even with the entire establishment rebuilt. Ciri suspected that its business was even better than before, back when Geralt came.

With enough coins in her pocket, earned from previous contracts, she managed to get a room in The New Narakort after waiting for half a day, and Kelpie was properly fed and brushed. The innkeeper had a friendly face and friendly voice, and his wife made excellent mutton. The room was clean and spacious, with a soft bed to soothe her sore legs. A good start; better than the one Geralt had described.

But when Ciri lay in bed that night, she suddenly realized that it wasn't a good start at all. Geralt had managed to see the burgomeister of the city so quickly by getting himself in trouble. For Melitele's sake, he even got to see the king. But her arrival was too peaceful and polite that she had no excuse at all to do the things she wanted to do. She had contracts to fulfill, but she was also here for other reasons.

Two years had passed since the Battle of Kaer Morhen ... in this world, at least. After spending her first year on the Path as a newly made witcher, Ciri thought it was time to visit those who came to their aid back then. Roche and Ves, of course, were on her list, although they weren't the ones she was most familiar with.

But even if she thought with her feet, it was quite easy to guess that it wouldn't be easy for a random witcher to see Roche and Ves. By far, Ciri's only knowledge about them was that they were still alive, but on that basis, it was clear that they must still serve in the Temerian army. Their ranks had probably risen, since Roche was practically in charge of the whole treaty with Nilfgaard. General Vernon Roche, or Constable Vernon Roche ... anything could be possible. How was she supposed to meet them, with only "I come to see an old friend" as cause? She wouldn't even be surprised if she's taken for a spy, if that's the reason she gave.

Nevertheless, before searching for another way, she would at least give it a try in the normal manner. The next morning, she set out to the Guardhouse where the burgomeister's office located. The guards at the front gate wore the silver-blue lilies of Temeria, white the banner flying on top of the roof displayed the golden sun of the empire.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Ciri said with a smile.

"Oh, good morning!" The eyes of the guard on the left lit up when he saw her. "Fine day, isn't it? How can I help you, beautiful lady? You don't look familiar to me ... are you new in Vizima?"

"Yes, yes I am," she wore her sweet smile still. "My name is Falka. I am a witcher."

"A witcher?" The guard on the right turned his head towards her, eyeing Ciri with cold, harsh eyes. "Two swords ... I see. You must be here to talk to Lord Velerad about the signs?"

"A witcher?" The guard on the left gasped. "I ... I never thought there're witcher girls!"

"Yes, good sir. Specifically, the sign about the Graveir," Ciri nodded. "Could you please show me to Lord Velerad?"

"You'll have to surrender your weapons first, witcher lady," said the guard. "I'll return them to you before you leave."

"Thank you very much, sir," she untied the straps on her shoulders, handing her swords over. She wasn't afraid of losing them; she could find them no matter where they went. Refusing to surrender her arms would only make her look suspicious. "There. Is that all?"

"Follow me, lady."

The burgomeister, Velerad, was a man in his sixties, probably close to seventy. He was fat and bald, but his sharp eyes behind those fine glasses told Ciri that he wasn't what he seemed. It suddenly dawned on her that his name sounded familiar -- could it be that this Velerad was the same Velerad in Geralt's story? Judging from his age, it's entirely possible.

"Ah, a witcher," he immediately spotted the pendant around her neck. "From the School of Wolf, I presume?"

"Indeed."

"Name?"

"Falka," she usually use her true name in towns and villages, but she's more cautious in cities, even though the name Cirilla wasn't particularly rare.

"Mmmh, not a common name in the north, for obvious reasons," Velerad tapped the papers in front of him with his pen. "Where're you from? I can't tell from you accent."

She had lost her Cintran accent during her jouney to other worlds. "From Nazair, my lord."

"Well, makes sense," her accent did have a likeness to Nazairians. "Which sign did you take from the board?"

Ciri took out the paper tucked in her belt. "Here, this one. Five hundred florens to get rid of the Graveir in the new cemetery, correct?"

"Blasphemous deed. In case you don't know, that cemetery's built to honor the soldiers who fell in the battles with Nilfgaard. No offense, my lady."

"Don't worry about that. I'm a witcher, I remain neutral."

"Good, good. In a word, we don't want the bone marrow of patriots to be sucked dry by a freak. You've made a bold choice, witcheress ... Lady Falka."

"It's my job. It says that after the job's finished, I should come to you with the severed head as proof to collect my reward."

"Yes, yes. Let me see ... a moment please," he looked inside a few drawers, crunching his face in a scowl. "Ploughing florens ... I only have crowns on hand. I'll have to ask the treasury for coins. You go ahead and do your job, lady, I won't trick you. I have a reputation to maintain in this city, and I don't want to sully it."

"Thank you. In fact ... I have another question."

"Just ask."

Ciri put her elbow on the table. "I'm wondering ... if there's a way I can get to meet Mister Vernon Roche?"

Velerad paused, staring at her with bulging eyes. "Roche? Commander of Blue Stripes?"

"Exactly."

"What business do you have with him?" The burgomeister's mood seemed to have sunken upon hearing that name.

"You see, I'm a witcher from the School of Wolf. Perhaps you won't believe me, but, that famous witcher, the White Wolf. He's my mentor."

"Geralt of Rivia?" Velerad's eyes lit up again. "You know him?"

"Of course I do. We witchers know every colleague from the same school."

"Good, excellent! I remember when he came ... nobody who witnessed that instance can forget it. It's been ... goodness, is that really so long ago? You've probably heard of it, haven't you?"

"Lifting the curse of the princess?"

"Yes! The witcher's a ploughing legend to the old folks of Vizima. Turned King Foltest's beloved daughter, a striga, back into a princess. Fourteen years of trouble, gone in one night. The king loved to talke about it when he's ... ah forget it, just an old man's nostalgic sentiments. Anyway, if you know Geralt of Rivia, call yourself my friend. Where were we ... you've got business with Roche, you say?"

"They're old acquaintances, Geralt and Roche, and he ahd always wanted to pay Roche a visit. But Geralt is occupied by other matters at this point, and I happen to have business to do in Vizima, so he asked me to deliver his greetings to Roche."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Velerad rubbed his chin. "Come back tomorrow, my lady, I'll give you an answer then. Since you know Roche, you'll understand that it's not an easy thing to meet him. I'll have to make a report."

"I understand."

"Escort this lady out, and return her weapons," Velerad gestured to the guard. "Tomorrow when she comes, just let her in."

Everything's going well by far, though Ciri was a little worried about who Velerad's reporting to. The burgomeister seemed to be friendly enough, but she couldn't be sure whichever lord he planned to report to could be the same as friendly. If he's reporting to a Nilfgaardian ... that would be worst situation she could think of, even though she concealed her real name. The burgomeister seemed to have patrotic grudges against the Nilfgaardians, but the possibility still existed.

Fortunately, the next day when Velerad led her through the corridors of the palace to an office, it wasn't a Nilfgaardian dressed in black and gold with ridiculous colars she saw, but a young man clad in green and red. With a typical northern face, dark hair framing a fine face, he couldn't be older than twenty-five.

"My lord La Valette," Velerad bowed with difficulty. "I present to you Lady Falka of Nazair, witcheress of the School of Wolf."

"Greetings, my lady," the young man politely inclinced his head, and gestured for Velerad to leave. "Please, leave us, Lord Velerad. I wish to speak to the lady alone."

Velerad bowed again, and quickly left the room. There were no other person in this office except for Ciri and this young lord La Valette. She was unarmed, but nor was the young lord. He looked at her with caution, but not with enmity.

"I am Baron Aryan La Valette, steward of Queen Anaïs," he introduced himself to her. "I've heard from Velerad, Lady Falka, that you're an acquaintance of the witcher Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf."

"Yes, my lord. Pleasure to meet you."

"You wish to convey the witcher's greetings to Roche, is that correct?"

"It would be best if I could see him in person."

"I understand. I myself has met Geralt of Rivia, a few years before. He is just, reasonable and gracious, and I owe him my life. It is my pleasure to be of help to his colleague."

Ciri couldn't help but thought that she had underestimated Geralt's social circle. Or was it just that she happened to be very lucky? "The pleasure's mine," she smiled, and the young baron Aryan blushed just a little.

"I ... I'm very sorry to inform you, Lady Falka, that Roche and his Blue Stripes are absent from Vizima at this moment. Nilfgaard ... the empire had sent them to the front lines in Redania, to deal with King Radovid's leftover forces. My assumption is that he wouldn't be able to return until a marriage between Queen ... former Queen Adda and the new Nilfgaardian governor is secured."

"Oh ... "

"But I heard that the battles are mostly over, and the wedding day is already near. He would be back within a few weeks, at most," continued Aryan. "Velerad told me you have contracts to fulfill in Vizima. If you don't mind, you're welcomed to stay in Vizima until Roche comes back. And of course, I shall pay for your room and board."

"That's so gracious of you, but I can handle it myself. I shall wait in the city."

"Then I'll have a messenger inform you of his return when he arrives. May I ask where you live?"

"At the New Narakort, the inn near the Roper's Gate."

"Good, I'll make sure to remember. I wish you good luck with your task, my lady."

With her main problem settled, Ciri turned her focus to making preparations and gathering information for her quest. It was late summertime, the days mostly fine with occasional rain, the perfect season in Temeria. Finally getting to visit the place brought great joy to her; she had Temerian blood herself, with both her great-grandmother Adalia and her ancestor Riannon as Queen of Temeria. Besides, it felt good to follow Geralt's trail, and see the city in which he fulfilled his legendary mission. She wondered what the Old Narakort looked like before it became the New Narakort, and she wondered how the Princess Adda was faring, who was soon to only a lady wife of the governor of Imperial Province Redania. It was nice to meet with people who had met Geralt before, and listen to them talk about their experience with Geralt together from their perspective.

Vizima, however, was not the most pleasant city she had visited, as Ciri explored the different districts. In the Temple Quarter, the nonhumans who hadn't left still clashed frequently with the Order of the Flaming Rose, while St. Lebioda's Hospital was still filled to the brim with victims of Catriona. In the Trade Quarter, the wave of Nilfgaardian merchants that poured into the district after the war had daily conflicts with the locals, with street fights carelessly settled and the court always busy with cases of business feuds. The villages in the outskirts suffered from hunger, plague and monsters. Even the Royal Quarter wasn't so peaceful, Ciri discovered after a few naughty peeks. With only a little girl as the queen and no member in the regency council with a good enough reputation, the Temerian soldiers whispered complaints among themselves, and worked reluctantly with their Nilfgaardian colleagues.

The new cemetery, where the graveir was constantly troubling, covered a large piece of land in the outskirts of Vizima. The tombstones were simply carved, due to shortage of funds, according to the caretaker of the cemetery. A memorial used to be in construction, but was abandoned after the graveir started plaguing the place.

"For half a bloody year," the caretaker took a large gulp of beer as he recounted to her. "The Order used to deal with some monsters, but the more fanatics from Novigrad came to join them, the more does they charge. I say their price was outright robbery!"

"How often does the graveir appear?" Ciri asked.

"Two to three times a month. The rest of the time it lived in the sewers. And they blamed me! As if they've got enough guts to drive that monster away when they see it for themselves. Anyway, terrible deeds, I won't deny it. The bones just left scattered in the crypt, missing parts. I'm glad you come, witcher girl. Those are the bones of heroes, brave men who died for Temeria instead of selling her to the Black Ones like those whoresons. Get rid of that monster and give them back the peace they deserve."

That was not the worst name people used to call Roche that Ciri had heard in these days. In Novigrad, she had seen plays performed in theaters about the patriotic fights of the Temeria guerilla, and the audiences cheered for their valor; but here in Temeria, in Vizima, Roche was a traitor who sold his own country to the Nilfgaardians. It was slightly better in White Orchard, where the folks were happy enough to see "the Silver Lilies blooming beneath the Great Sun," but in the capital, there was only pure resentment.

After a year of honing her witcher skills, taking down a graveir wasn't much of a problem. She took some other contracts clearing the ghouls and alghouls nearby, and soon even the abandoned memorial was back in construction. News spread quickly in a city like Vizima, every local resident in the district learned of Falka the witcheress; those who were grateful greeted her with smiles as they spotted her on the road, and those who considered witchers as monsters avoided her as they would avoid a monster. Few dared to curse her in her face, since she was close to the burgomeister and the young Baron La Valette, but Ciri knew that if she wasn't, they would've dared.

Such was the life Geralt had lived for nearly a century. Ciri wondered if she would change anything.

Two weeks later, Ciri was finally informed of the Blue Stripes' return. They crossed no gate nor passed through the city in the daylight, returning to the palace through secret paths; that was how hated Roche was. She did not get to see them until after a few days, since the troops were in dire need of rest.

For minutes she waited anxiously in the great hall, excited with the notions of reuniting with old friends. When she heard footsteps sounding behind her, she turned around eagerly to see the familiar figures, and barely suppressed a happy cry. Ves was the first to meet her eyes, silent but with no less amount of joy. Roche turned to her a few moments later, finishing his conversation with Aryan beside him; the furrows in his brows softened at the sight of her, though his hard features were still somber.

"Lady Falka," said Aryan, "as promised, I've brought them to you."

"Thank you so much, Baron. Do you mind ... ?"

"Yes, of course. I'll leave you some space. You must have a lot to talk about."

Ves strode to her the moment they were alone, speechless with joy; her arms hovered in the air stiffly, as if she wanted to embrace her, but had never done it and didn't know how, so Ciri did it for her, patting her back as they laughted together.

"How long has it been?" Ves sighed after they broke apart, wiping at her eyes. "It certainly felt like ages to me ... "

"Geralt's lengendary Child of Surprise, now officially a witcher," said Roche with a merry tone, yet his voice was not as hearty as Ciri remembered. "I remember the day before Geralt left to look for his Yennefer, the only two things he talked about was how many times he broke up and got back with her and how happy he was with you. Never knew he could talk that much prior to that day."

"It's so nice to see you again," said Ciri. "I should've come sooner."

"There's nothing to apologize for, Ciri. We're all busy with our own matters," Ves squeezed her shoulder softly. "So, how's Geralt doing? Is everyone doing well?"

"That's ... a long story."

"Then we better sit down and have some drinks in front of us," said Roche. "Come on, I know a tavern in the Trade Quarter that will welcome us. By 'us' I mean 'me,' to be honest ... a fairly new one, opened by a Nilfgaardian."

Although the Trade Quarter, with more Nilfgaardians, was more tolerable to them than the other districts, Roche and Ves did not wear their uniforms to avoid attention. It was quite clear that their minds were burdened, especially Roche. When his eyes weren't full of worries, they were melancholy, and a frown never really left his brows. At first, Ciri thought he was troubled by the people's resentment towards him, but soon she discovered that he cared almost nothing whenever someone recognized him in the streets and secretly spat; he was only attracted by the feuds between Nilfgaardians and Temerians, and his eyes grew darker with every such incident he saw.

Even with his own people despising him, Roche's sole concern was still the welfare of his country.

"Knighted?" Ves stared at her with bulged eyes after Ciri finished her recount of Geralt's latest deed. "And a vineyard?!"

"I know. It sounds unbelievable to me too, until I saw it with my own eyes. Ah, Toussaint! That's really a place taken right out of a fairy tale. It's just perfect ... most suitable for Geralt to settle down. And Yennefer joined him too!."

"How good is it? Compared to ... for instance, Novigrad?" asked Roche.

"Far better! Just as rich, a lot warmer, and with no religious fanatics."

"Well, if that's not a fairytale city, I don't what is," Ves murmured. "I wonder if we'll have time to visit ... "

"There will be time," said Roche, assuring her. "Maybe ... in a few years. We will visit. How can I call myself his old friend if I don't even drop by his new home?"

"That would be splendid," said Ciri happily, "I bet they'd be a little bored if they stay there for too long. The Duchess often invite them to masquerades and games and parties, but it would be nice to have old friends visiting."

"What's it called? The vineyard?" asked Ves, trying hard to remember. "Cor ... Ban ... ugh, Nilfgaardian names ... "

"Corvo Bianco. Wonderful place," Ciri swallowed her gulp of Temerian rye. "Enough about us. What have you been doing these days? Why's Redania still in trouble? It's been two years."

"The Nilfgaardians didn't find Adda at first, so there's always unrest in the province," said Roche. "Now that the marriage is secured, the situation will get better ... that Nilfgaardian lord looks like a decent man. The princess should be safe with him."

"And when we're at home, Roche would go full daddy mode," quipped Ves as the alcohol started going into her head. "Queen Anaïs this and Queen Anaïs that, everything's for the good of Queen Anaïs, in the name of Queen Anaïs. The only person that mentions the queen as frequent as Roche is perhaps the queen's own mother! He taught the little queen how to use a sword and everything he knows about the military, and her mother takes care of Her Highness's daily life. There were even rumors in Vizima last year about Roche and the Lady Mary Lousia having an affair ... I'm glad it's forgotten now. Sounds horrendous."

"Lady Mary Lousia? I remember Geralt telling me that she lives in Novigrad."

"She came back as soon as the queen's crowned," replied Roche. "The regency council was going to punish her for the rebellion a few years before, but in the end they decided to let her keep her titles and stay in Vizima. The queen's still young; she needs her mother's care."

"Mostly because the Lady is close with the Emperor's heir, General Morvran Voorhis," added Ves.

They paused their conversation when food was served, chewing on bread and dried fruit. The tavern started to get crowed as the time approached midday, and from the table in the corner closest to them came words that caught all their attention, uttered in common tongue with heavy Aedirnian accent.

"... Scoia'tael's gathering again ... spotted in the woods near Vergen."

"Some even say that dragon woman is still leading them. Everyone thought she died when Vergen fell."

"What do they plan to do?"

"Take back Vergen, of course. I heard that their plan was to take the whole Pontar Valley! Upper Aedirn would be theirs, if not for the Nilfgaardians."

"Ruled by a dragon or ruled by Nilfgaardians. Ha, tell me what's touch choice!"

"The Pontar Valley is not safe anymore. We should take the road, not the river."

"What about the Scoia'tael in the woods?"

"Then we go further, south through Vengerberg. I don't want to be burned alive by dragon flames."

"Fine, fine. Who else's spotted except for Yaevinn?"

"I pray to the undying flame that it's not true, but I've even heard that Iorveth is among them."

"For fuck's sake ... you're right, let's go through Vengerberg, forget about the ploughing distance. Too great a risk."

Ves turned to look at Roche, and Ciri was silent. She learned about his career before the Third Northern War from Geralt; the commander of Temerian guerilla was once the head of the Blue Stripes, the special forces of King Foltest that fought the Scoia'tael commando lead by Iorveth for years.

"It's true," Roche said quietly. "I receieved reports from spies as well. Their planning a rebellion, and it's a serious one."

"They're not going to succeed," said Ves. "They might take Vergen back, but they can't hold the city; the Nilfgaardians will crush them."

"Eventually, yes, but not after a long fight. They're summoning the commandos from all over the Continent to join them, and who knows how hard would it be to kill a dragon. Now that the Virgin of Aedirn's identity's exposed, there would be no use hiding anymore," Roche washed the food down his throat with the vodka. "But of course, even a dragon can be killed. The Nilfgaardians will win; they're simply too few."

"If war breaks out in Aedirn, will it affect Temeria?" Ciri asked.

"Unlikely. Their major foes will be the Nilfgaardian troops, coming from Vengerberg in the south. But I don't have a good feeling about this."

"No," Ves murmured, as if she suddenly understood something. "They won't."

"They certainly will. It's very possible that I will be summoned to join the ranks; they only had experience cooperating with elves, not fighting them. I'm one of the few living people who fought them and survived, and I'm the best. They will need my experience."

"Must you answer?"

"I'm afraid rejection will be considered treason."

Ves let out an angry growl, "They just won't give us one second of peace!"

"Complaints won't help us. I'm more concerned about Iorveth. It's been some years since I last saw him ... I might need some time reviewing my notes about how to deal with him."

"You have notes? I thought you've already carved them on your chest, so you can review them every morning," joked Ves.

"It was a fucking metaphor."

"Oooh, metaphors. You learned it while reading bedtime stories for Her Grace?"

"Shut up, Ves."

Troubles like this were perhaps the major source of the melancholy on Roche's face. Aside from feeling sorry for these good friends, so apparently patriotic yet so unfairly treated, Ciri couldn't help but started to think about another matter.

"Iorveth ... Geralt knows him too, doesn't he?"

"Yes. We had some ... complicated affairs, back when Henselt invaded Upper Aedirn. Anyway, yes, I suppose Iorveth has met Geralt. And Yaevinn, too."

"I see," Ciri nodded, lost in thought.

* * *

She took her leave of Vizima three days later, aftering receiving a promise from Ves about they would certainly find time to visit Corvo Bianco. She headed north, and then east along the Pontar, straight towards the direction of Aedirn.

The truth was, she had already been to Upper Aedirn, and the only thing she needed to do to get there was close her eyes and teleport. But Ciri kept hesitating on her way, as she cut through drowners and nekkers and arachas, filling her pockets. Roche was a military man; he's sensitive about war, and Ciri trust in his prediction about the coming conflicts in the Pontar Valley. Although she was curious about Geralt's friendship with two Scoia'tael commanders and desperately wanted to meet this Iorveth, she wondered whether her surprise visit was the least thing Iorveth needed in this moment of tension. Unlike Roche, Iorveth had never met her, and probably wouldn't believe her explanation about being a friend of Geralt; Ciri had no idea what kind of welcome she would get.

She came to Flotsam a week later, a town as dark and melancholy as Roche. A new district was constructed, clearly by Nilfgaardians, judging from the style of those stone houses; the original district was abandoned and still being torn down, because the Catriona had taken some many lives in this moist town by the water that it bordered on extinction. The Nilfgaardians were forced to interfere, since Flotsam was too important a position to be left to waste away.

Leaving Flotsam behind her, Ciri officially stepped across the borders of Aedirn. Travelers grew rare, not even caravans protected by armed forces. It was as if the forest itself was watching her with thousands of eyes. Occasionally she saw dead bodies deserted in caves or carelessly covered with plants. The tension of war hovered in the air, even though everything was so quiet.

Until one day it wasn't. Ciri heard the shrieks from quite some distance away, and Kelpie galloped through the woods at her command. They came to a forest clearing when she pulled the reins. The shrieks came from a wyvern, and a man in black cloak was being chased towards the river by the ferocious beast.

Ciri dismounted and drew her sword. With a fluent motion she bit open the cork of a bottle of draconid oil, drenching her blade with the green liquid as she rushed towards the large reptile; on some other occasion she would've approached it with caution, but there was no time for that when someone's life was at stake.

An Aard stopped the wyvern's claws from slicing open the man's throat. Apparently she was still not very good at controling her magic, so instead of just pushing away the wyvern's claws, the sign sent the beast flying with a high-pitched scream, breaking through trees as it landed. Ciri gave a quick command of "stay where you are" to the man in black cloak, and threw herself into another witcher's fight.

Although she was cautious not to use teleportation, the battle was over within a few rounds. She let out a long sigh after the beast moved no more, and turned to the man, who obeyed her orders and remained where he was.

"Are you hurt?" Ciri asked, walking across the clearing to him. "Don't worry, it's dead now. I can assure you; I'm a witcher."

"A witcher?"

The man lifted his head upon hearing that particular word, the hood falling from his head. The man, Ciri discovered, was in fact an elf, with dark long hair and the typical pointed ears and aquiline nose of an Aen Seidhe. None of those traits drew Ciri's attention, though, because on his face, which must used to possess the elven beauty, lay a disfiguring scar that twisted his handsome features. Even Ciri shivered a little when she saw that scar; it reminded her of her own scar, ugly and covering half of her face, before it was cured by the salve Avallac'h prepared for her.

There was something about the way he looked at her, something that looked too much like resentment. Not because she was human, no; but because she was a witcher.

"Yes, master elf. My name's Mistle," instinct told Ciri that she shouldn't fully trust him. "Can you get up? Do you have any injuries?"

"No," the elf lowered his head, that vengeful glare dying down in his eyes. "I never knew women could be witchers."

"Well, you know it now," Ciri pulled out a knife and starting cutting some scales and bones from the wyvern's corpse. "Care to tell me your name?"

"Reuven."

Ciri said nothing, though she knew the name was as fake as hers. Not as hers perhaps; at least the one she used had once belonged to an actual person. She carefully secured the dragon bones in he sack, leading her Kelpie to him.

"The place's too dangerous to travel alone. I would certainly prefer company on the road to Vergen. What say you, master Reuven?"

"What business do you have in Vergen?"

"Some feuds to settle with the dwarves. Money. And also looking for work. You?"

"I'm bound for the Blue Mountains."

"Then we're on the same road! Come on, master elf, it wouldn't hurt. Or is it that you don't like witchers?"

He remained silent for a moment before giving his reply. "Nothing. I accept your kind offer, vatt'ghern. I'm grateful to you for saving my life."

"It's my job."

Despite his own denial, the elf indeed had some sort of hatred towards witchers; not towards her, but towards the witchers as a whole. Sometimes when she woke up at night to take the next watch, she would find him staring at her face -- her hair -- with bitter sadness and rage in his eyes. It was not the common discrimination towards witchers, but a much more personal type of grudge.

Perhaps some witcher had done him wrong before, thought Ciri, after all, not every witcher's as good as Geralt.

She knew, however, where the elf was truly bound for. It was quite clear the moment she saw that scar, and ever clearer after observing the way he walked and moved. The elf was no doubt a soldier, and apparently the reason why he came to Upper Aedirn was to join the Scoia'tael. But Ciri did not think her guess out loud. An idea started to emerge in her mind.

They didn't speak much the entire journey, and parted ways in the outskirts of Vergen. She waited until she was well out of the elf's sharp sight, and cast a spell of invisibility on herself, drank some useful potions that helped with stealth, and followed the elf's trail.

For an entire day she followed him, hiking through the dense forest with quick strides, straying further and further away from Vergen. The elf checked every trace and clue he could find, his motions fluent, his target getting clearer with every observation. He wasn't a new recruit, Ciri realized, he was a veteran in the Scoia'tael, and he knew the ways of his colleagues well.

He finally arrived at the place he was looking for near midnight. In a small valley with rich vegetation and tall trees, two elves dressed in green were standing guard at the entrance of a cave. The guards spotted the elf even when he hadn't yet revealed himself, but they didn't warn him, only notching arrows on their bows and waited for the elf to approach.

"Identify yourself, brother," they called out to him in Elder Speech as he came to stand in front of them, out of caution instead of enmity. "All Aen Seidhe that believes in our cause is welcomed to join us, but we shall show no mercy to spies."

The elf removed his hood. The two guards recoiled a little at the sight of his scar, but then suddenly realizing something, they started to stammer in excitement and disbelief. "You ... you cannot be ... "

"Yes, I can," said the elf with a smile. Ciri had never seen him smile on their way here.

"They say you're dead!" One of the guards, the older one, shook his head with tears in his eyes. "Hanged in Dillingen! Thrown into the Yaruga!"

"Well, then fetch Iorveth, see if he recognizes his old friend."

"Stay here," the older guard told his partner, and rushed into the cave.

Within less than a minute, another elf rushed out of cave like a galloping fox, coming to a halt at the sight of the elf in black cloak. The elf that came out was dressed in green leather and chainmail, with a red scarf wrapped around his head to cover his right eye, supposedly blind. One look at him was enough for Ciri to understand that he was Iorveth, the leader of the Scoia'tael in this camp.

They stared into each other for a moment, and with a quick motion threw themselves into each other's embrace, speaking not a word. The surrounding elves started cheering, and Ciri could hear "wolf" and "legend" and "vrihedd" in their merry exclaims.

The two elves broke apart reluctantly after a long minute, with tears in their eyes.

"Welcome," said Iorveth in a hoarse voice, squeezing at his friend's shoulder. "Welcome back, Isengrim."

Ciri followed into the cave without much difficulty as Isengrim was welcomed inside. All the elves were so excited at his arrival that none were alert enough to realize an invisible witcher's intrusion. Nevertheless, she picked a decent spot to sit down after she entered, a spot in which she could see and hear Isengrim and his fellows conversing, and without many elves in patrol passing by. She was happy as well, to finally get to see Iorveth, Geralt's friend.

After some tearful reunion, three elves sat down around the bonfire in the camp, Isengrim, Iorveth and another elf in brown leather and dark long hair, his face unscarred, unlike his two colleagues. Ciri heard Iorveth calling him Yaevinn.

"I came from Novigrad," said Isengrim, as he started recounting his experience at the urge of his friends. "Set out as soon as I heard news of you."

"How did you end up in Novigrad?" asked Iorveth. "That is not the best place for Aen Seidhe to stay these days. The Eternal Fire gets more powerful every year."

"I received protection," Isengrim smiled a little. "From a dh'oine."

"Well, well, isn't that a noble act driven by pure kindness and pity," said Yaevinn sarcastically.

"What sort of dh'oine has enough guts to protect you from those fire worshipping freaks?" said Iorveth.

"You all know him, though perhaps only his name. It was Sigismund Dijkstra. We met at Elskerdeg Pass no long after Dillingen, traveled together to the Fiery Mountains and hid there for a while. He returned to Redania when the Third Northern War broke out, and so I followed him, and lived there under the protection of his syndicate."

"Why did he do such a kind thing? What business does the head of Redanian Secret Service have with the Scoia'tael?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. Perhaps he just didn't want me to make more trouble for him," Isengrim shrugged. "In any case, he did offer me protection."

"Dijkstra died two years ago," said Yaevinn. "What comes afterwards?"

"I was taken in by a fellow Aen Seidhe named Elihal. He owns a tailor shop in the outskirts of Novigrad; he has a good enough reputation to be not suspected, and he's kind and brave enough to allow me to hide in his home."

"A legend indeed," commented Yaevinn as he poured Isengrim a cup of beer. "How's your trip? Any trouble from the Nilfgaardians?"

"No, I was cautious," Isengrim took the cup. "But a wyvern attacked me on my way here. A witcher saved me ... we traveld together for a while."

"What's your problem with witchers?" Iorveth asked, noticing Isengrim's apparent resentment when pronouncing that word.

"It was a witcher that had Dijkstra killed," said Isengrim darkly. "He's a dh'oine and not a particularly good person, but he offered me protection for five years. I do not hold grudge against the one that saved my life, but overall, I'm not fond of the notion of being saved by a witcher and having to travel with one."

So that's why he seemed to hate her, thought Ciri as she scratched her head a little in embarrassment. Because Geralt killed Sigismund Dijkstra.

"Enough about me. Tell me about this dragoness I kept hearing about," Isengrim looked at Iorveth. "Is she as good as the rumors claim? Is she trustworthy?"

"She is," Iorveth comfirmed. "I met Saskia shortly after the Second Northern War. She served in Demavend's ranks, and in less than three years she became the best military commander in Aedirn. When Demavend was assassinated, she made a deal with Stennis to lead the army and fight back Henselt, in exchange for the autonomy of Vergen. She is noble, determined, and charismatic as a leader."

"I trust you, Iorveth, but still, I wish to make my own judgements."

"I understand. She went to Vergen to negotiate with the dwarves this morning. She should be back soon."

Saskia returned soon after, accompanied by a few dwarves. She looked like a tall, slender and beautiful woman with blonde hair, dressed in red leather and fine armor. There was a determined light burning in her eyes, and her voice was calm but powerful. The elves all inclined their heads respectfully as she passed, and Iorveth led Isengrim to her, introducing his old friend to the head of the insurrection forces.

Ciri watched for a while as Isengrim and Saskia got to know each other, and quietly made her way out of the cave when they were getting to strategic plans. When she passed the last elven scout in the forest, she undid the invisible spell and let out a long, satisfied sigh. Her goal was achieved without disturbing the elves, and she was happy. With light steps Ciri returned by the way she came, going towards where she left Kelpie as the sky slowly turned white.

It was at dawn when she heard quick footsteps sounding behind her. When she turned, she could only see a red blur coming to a halt beside a tree, and a crystale command soon followed.

"Stop where you are!"

Ciri blinked, and her heart sped up when she saw that the blur was no other than Saskia. The dragon lady wasn't wearing her armor, and her forehead was a little moist with sweat, though her breaths were still even; she must have run from the camp to catch up with her. Saskia stared at Ciri with anger and vigilance, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

"Who are you?" She questioned, "and why did you sneak into our camp like a spy?"

"I ... "

"Judging from your two swords, I can presume that you're witcher. However, I must demand that you tell me your name."

"How did you know that I was there?"

"I can see through your magic, witcher. Minor magical tricks cannot fool my eyes."

Ciri turned around properly to face her. "Why didn't you expose me back in the camp?"

"I was planning to expose you, when we get to the strategy part. But you left when we were just starting, so I realized that you're no spy. Nevertheless, I will not simply allow an intruder to come and leave our camp at will. Tell me who you are, I'll judge if you're a spy according to your answer, and there might be a way to settle this peacefully. If you refuse, this will not end without a fight."

Ciri lowered her eyes in contemplation. She could, of course, just teleport away, but then Saskia would think that their forces were threatened, and who knows how much trouble would follow afterwards. Taking a deep breath, Ciri looked Saskia in the eyes and told the truth.

"My name is Ciri. I'm a friend of Geralt of Rivia."

The anger dissolved from Saskia's eyes when she heard that name. "Geralt?"

"Yes. I've come to take a look at his friends in the Scoia'tael, Iorveth and Yaevinn. I'm sorry that I chose to hide myself from you; I did not do it out of ill intentions. I simply do not wish to disturb you, since you're busy with coming battles."

"You speak the truth? Are you really Geralt's friend?"

"I am. And I send you his greetings in his stead."

Saskia frowned. "How will you prove this?"

"I know he lifted the spell Philippa Eilhart cast on you. I know it was he that convinced you to return to Vergen when the Nilfgaardians assaulted. And he told me you're the daughter of the golden dragon he once met."

Saskia gasped. "You truly are his friend."

Ciri nodded eagerly. "Please, I mean no harm to you. I've seen Iorveth, and I'll be on my way immediately."

"No, no ... it's me that should've apologized! I'm so sorry that we cannot show you hospitality."

"It's alright."

"I'm glad to meet a friend of Geralt. Are you his colleague? How is he doing right now."

"His student, really, though I would prefer to call him my father," Ciri smiled. "He's safe and well, and even settled down in a home! I really wish you could visit him someday."

"Someday," Saskis nodded firmly. "And I promise, Vergen will always welcome you after we retrieve the city. You will be treated as an honorable guest, and I will be able to introduce you to Iorveth properly."

"Thank you, Lady Saskia," Ciri inclined her head. "Although I must remina neutral, I wish you good luck with your fight."

"I accpet your blessing with friendship. Fare thee well on your Path, Ciri."

By the time she reached the place where Kelpie waited for her, half a sun could already be seen on top of the mountain. Enjoying the cool wind on her face, she rode south, quitting the road to Vergen. Perhaps she should visit Vengerberg, and set out to Lyria from there. She would really like to meet the Queen Meve, who once knighted Geralt and made him double "Geralt of Rivia."

She rode, leaving behind her the coming war, returning to her Path.


	2. Heavenly Aida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RADAMÈS  
> If only that warrior were I!  
> If my dream might come true!  
> I shall lead an army of brave men,  
> Victory will be mine, and the applause of all Memphis!  
> And then I shall return to you, my sweet Aida,  
> Decked with the victor’s laurels, and say to you.  
> “For you I fought, and for you I conquered!”

**1276**

The summon came in spring, a time at which Roche was most reluctant to leave Vizima. The spring damp worsened the already severe Catriona plague, the burden on the little queen's shoulders grew heavier, and with death and despair came unrest. It was a time at which Temeria needed him the most, yet he must fight a war in foreign lands at the command of a foreign Emperor.

Having to fight Iorveth shouldn't have lightened his heart. Iorveth was a cunning and dangerous foe, which meant the fight could be longer, much longer than expected, and it would take longer for Roche to return to Temeria. But the truth was, recalling the many battles he fought in the woods near Mahakam and seeing the tall green figure in his mind's eyes were his only consolation, when all he could see with his real eyes were the black and golden sun on Nilfgaardian banners.

They rode north to the Pontar and boarded a ship at Flotsam, sailing directly to the Nilfgaardian camp in Upper Aedirn. It was as clean and disciplined as Roche remembered. The Alba Division had arrived from Vengerberg, under command of Colonel Tavar Eggebracht, who was promoted to the position after the General Morvran Voorhis was named Field Marshal. Roche knew him as a quartermaster of the Nilfgaardian camp in Velen a few years before, when the treaty with the empire wasn't yet signed; Roche wasn't surprised about Eggebracht's promotion. The man's cold ruthlessness was simply perfect for war.

"Commander Vernon Roche, welcome," Eggebracht rose from his seat as Roche was led to his tent, his eyes behind the glasses scanning the men Roche brought with him. "I see you've brought you own soldiers ... I was not informed."

"My men understand my orders the best. I know I'm only invited as strategic counsel, but some of my plans cannot be enforced without them."

"Yes, indeed ... it'll be good to have some light infantry against the highly flexible Scoia'tael. The Alba Division is a little too heavily armored; better save them for the siege. I shall request for more supplies for your men."

"Thank you. You mentioned siege ... have they taken Vergen already?"

"Easily. The city's full of dwarves, in other words, their allies. We've never expected to keep the city from them. However, they're too few to hold it. The moment they have the city is the moment they lose it. Now, strategies can come later; first let's find your men a place to stay."

After settling down in their own tents, Roche ordered them to change into Nilfgaardian colors. Although their arrival might already be known to the rebels in Vergen, it was best to not let Iorveth recognize the Blue Stripes at first sight in battle. Roche's men scowled at the command, and the yellow of the suns stung his own eyes, but it had to be done.

"I've only worn this for three seconds and I'm already feeling hot," complained Ves.

"It's early spring, Ves. Besides, it's good that it doesn't have buttons. Finally I don't have to see you charge into battle with your navel exposed."

"That's why I hate this so much! Can't I wear my own shirt inside?"

"What for? The vest's still buckled, the leather's gonna rub at your ... belly all that. If that won't trouble you, then go ahead."

Ves let out a frustrated groan. "Shit, you're right. Ploughing Nilfgaardian blouse ... you look good in black though."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not, just telling the truth," Ves shrugged, and then smiled, this time truly sarcastic. "Looks like a prince's evil uncle, just like in the fairy tales."

Roche gave her a glare and changed the topic. "Still remember how to snipe at elven archers?"

"Might need some practice."

"Then we better get some," Roche stuffed the silver badge with Temerian lilies inside his coat. "I'm going to Eggebracht's tent. Hortensio, you take the first watch. Don't wait for me at supper."

Eggebracht was standing beside a table with a map of Upper Aedirn spread out in front of him, surrounded by a few other captains. None of them was happy about Roche's arrival; most these men had served under Eggebracht in Velen, and they knew very well that it was no other than Roche that made the fight in Temeria so excruciatingly long. Roche paid them no attention, joining them around the table.

"Ah, you've come, Commander," Eggebracht greeted him half-heartedly. "We were just discussing about how to locate the Scoia'tael's camp outside Vergen."

"Why is there Scoia'tael outside the Vergen? Shouldn't they be defending the walls? Archers are precious in a sparsely populated dwarven city."

"It seems that they're short of supplies, even though the local lords would provide some for them. They need to rob the Nilfgaardian stores to support their soldiers, and so they seize the chance to reduce some enemies as well."

Roche took a look at the map, specifically at the green crosses drawn on certain spots. "Are these the places where you've encountered them?"

"Exactly."

"Which one of the Scoia'tael commanders lead these units?"

"Iorveth. I believe you, as his old nemesis, may have some insights?"

"Yes, I'm familiar with the patterns of his operations. These hills covered by vegetation ... they're most likely to set up a hideout there. The trees provide natural covers, and it's easy to find a proper cave."

"That is what we think as well."

"Iorveth's habit is to use one camp to conceal the real one. Usually the camp used as disguise is easy to discover, like elven ruins, and then his enemies would be tricked into believing that their job is done once they drove out the elves and took the camp, while in fact they just retreated. He might set several of these locations, guard them with soldiers as if they care much about them, but the real one would be the place they store their weapons and medicine."

"I thought the Vrihedd officers are known for their rashness in battle," said one of the captains. "Why does Iorveth sound so cautious?"

"You're not wrong. When it comes to strategies and operations, Iorveth is prone to take risks to achieve his goals," said Roche. "In fact, he was very bold even as a Scoia'tael; burned down entire villages, spared no hostages, murdered children ... he got more cautious ever since I wiped out a whole unit of his."

"Then we have you to blame for all our troubles today, is that it, Commander?" said another captain with scorn in his eyes.

"Hush, Steven," berated Eggebracht. "Your petty arrogance will bring only shame to Nilfgaard. I hope you haven't taken any offense, Commander Roche."

"No," Roche said dryly.

"Good. Thank you. Now, what is your advice, then?"

"I need more information. First, the dragon, Saskia ... has she ever fought in dragon form?"

Eggebracht and the captains all seemed uncomfortable at the topic. "Not yet," said Eggebracht, shifting his weight between his feet.

"What keeps her from doing so?"

"According to our intelligence ... back when King Henselt invaded Upper Aedirn, the sorceress that worked with Saskia, Philippa Eilhart, cast some sort of spell on her. Let's say that Saskia could be ... unstable in dragon form, therefore she tries her best to avoid transformation. However ... "

"We don't know if she would choose take the risk."

"No."

Roche rubbed his chin. "Did she fight as a dragon when Vergen was taken the first time, a few years ago?"

"She did not, oddly enough. Not even when the city was breached."

"Then my bet shall be that she still wouldn't do it, though I cannot be certain, either. What other commanders of the Scoia'tael are in Vergen?"

"As far as we know, Isengrim Faoiltiarna is with them, though he didn't seem to bring more forces with him," said Eggebracht. "And Yaevinn, whom you should be familiar with as well. Another one called Vernossiel is also there; she used to be active in Velen, mostly robbing passing caravans or nearby military camps."

"Hmm. Iorveth will be the _de facto_ leader of the elves. Only Isengrim has the same reputation as him, but the Iron Wolf will only serve as spiritual leader. And Iorveth is closest with Saskia."

"Should we fight the Scoia'tael outside the city or not? I say we save our strength until the siege," said Steven.

Roche was confused. "I don't see any siege weapons here. How do we lay one?"

"Field Marshal Voorhis will bring reinforcements later," said Eggebracht. "He's occupied by other matters in the capital, but he will ride to Vengerberg as soon as he's available."

"Then of course we should strike," said Roche. "If we don't wear down or cut down as many archers as possible, every one of them on those walls will cost us as many lives as the arrows they have."

"Their arrows cannot pierce Nilfgaardian breastplate."

"No, but they have sharp enough eyes to aim at the seams between pieces of armor, and I tell you, if they let loose an arrow, it means it will definitely hit the target."

"Good point. It is indeed our job to reduce potential casualties as much as possible," Eggebracht nodded. "Though the forest is their familiar battle grounds, I still suggest that we start there. The dragon wouldn't risk setting fire to the woods; they need it as cover, and they wouldn't want to burn their own precious soldiers."

"Pretend to aim for the city, force Iorveth to attack first," said an officer.

"No, he will notice our intention. We have no siege weapons," said Roche. "They need supplies, we can use this to confuse them. Set up bait units and pretend to be caravans, and we ambush them when they strike."

As Roche had expected, the discussion continued well into the night. He dined with the officers, sipping at the Nilfgaardian wine which was a little too sweet to his liking; by the time he left Tavar Eggebracht's tent, the moon was already on top of his head.

He lived in the same tent as his men, even though as commander he was given private space. The night was cool and quiet, and all of them were fast asleep wrapped in their blankets. Roche was exhausted as well, after a day of travel and a night of war council, but lying on his wooden cot, he couldn't sleep.

He hadn't mentioned the name "Iorveth" at all for three years, and pronouncing it once again after so long felt strangely dreamy, as if he was harking back to better times. He certainly shouldn't have felt this way; Iorveth was no less cruel than the Nilfgaardians. But as he listened to the soft rustling of trees in the evening breeze, he couldn't help but think of them as Iorveth's light footsteps, and picture the way the elf elegantly leapt from branch to branch among green summer leaves. And Roche would be on the ground, observing his motions with utmost focus, his sword ready to catch the arrow's sharp kiss.

Perhaps it was about the game. It had always felt like a game with Iorveth; a cruel game, but a game nonetheless. There were losses and there were gains, and either could be expected. He planned, schemed and fought, knowing that Iorveth would respond with a force strong enough to boil his blood, but not so strong as to overwhelm him in an instant. With Nilfgaard, there was no game to begin with. There was no hope of victory when facing that tide of black armor and banners. He had realized this the moment John Natalis was consumed by that tide. The time with Iorveth, however ... it was a time when battles are battles, not desperate struggles.

He wondered if this was what the Aen Seidhe felt like, when the only outcome of fighting was to lose and die, and the only way to survive was to adapt.

The first battle took place three days later. They managed to bait the Scoia'tael unit led by Vernossiel, and she got away with only three of her soldiers; the rest were killed or captured. Roche interrogated them afterwards by himself. Some of them were loyal veterans who would rather die than open their mouths, while others were younger elves with less grit or experience that only joined the Scoia'tael because they were attracted by the beautiful dream of racial equality, and of course, information came a lot easier from them. They quickly stormed several of those locations they confessed about, but all of them were already empty; Iorveth must've gotten the news and retreated beforehand.

After that, it became more and more difficult to bait the Scoia'tael, so strategies needed to be changed almost after using only once. Iorveth was as cunning as ever. Once they were even ambushed when they were waiting for the elves to take the bait.

Some of the soldiers reported witnessing Iorveth, but Roche never got the chance to see him with his own eyes. Eggebracht considered his experience too valuable to be lost in mere skirmishes, and under most circumstances would advise him against engaging directly in battles. Roche had protested once, since he had always fought alongside his soldiers and crossed blades with Iorveth, but the look behind those glasses told him that those were in fact orders disguised as kind suggestions.

Occasionally, Roche would be permitted to lead operations. In every such instance he would listen to the quietude of the woods, waiting for some kind of grandiose appearance accompanied by the music of flute. But those instances were rare, and he never had the fortunate to see Iorveth in battle.

A month and a half later, Field Marshal Morvran Voorhis finally arrived, and behind him was a river of shining steel of black and gold that made Roche's head hurt. When Voorhis heard of their operations, he complimented their strategy and effort. "It is very responsible and commendable of you to take the casualties into consideration," he said with his strange and flamboyant accent, his Common Tongue fluent but not as fluent as Eggebracht's. "Many of the generals these days boast about, and worst of all, rely on numbers to achieve victory, as if Nilfgaardian lives could be tossed away like used clothes. I shall continue with your wonderful strategy, since you gentlemen have proved it to be effective."

"So we keep on with the guerilla fights?" asked Roche.

"Oh, no. If we keep on doing that, there is no point in me coming here all the way from Nilfgaard, Commander Vernon," Voorhis said with a raised brow and half smile. "I shall carry on with the strategy in a far more ... harmless manner."

Marshal Voorhis spent the following weeks visiting certain merchants, bankers and local lords surrounding Vergen, often accompanied by a Nilfgaardian sorceress called Cynthia, several guards and Roche as an invited companian. An eloquent speaker, a member of the Guild of Merchants and a man of high birth, the merchants, bankers and lords he visited quickly bowed down to his bribery or threats, promising to cease their "useless pursuit of minor interests." With every visit, reports would come from scouts and spies that starvation within Vergen grew worse. Forced by the worsening condition, the Scoia'tael attacked the Nilfgaardian caravans more boldly, only to have more of them captured or killed.

Victory was drawing close, although not in a way Roche particularly liked. The fated moment was near; Iorveth might flee into the woods once again, or he might die defending those walls. The possibility of the latter caused Roche some headache -- no, not because he wanted Iorveth to live, but that he wanted Iorveth to die in his hands - but in any case, this war would soon be over, and he could finally return to Temeria, to his place in the palace of Vizima, at the side of his young queen.

But the longer Roche waited, the more did he realize that Marshal Morvran wasn't intending on laying siege to Vergen at all. There were no instructions of transferring the camp to the foot of the walls of Vergen, nor were there orders to ready the siege weapons. Something wasn't right; the young marshal was not indecisive as a commander, there must be a reason why he wasn't moving on when the time was ripe.

There was only one way of finding out. Roche wrote a letter with a special ink that required certain methods to reveal its color, and on the other side of the paper wrote a common report. The envelope, with the sign of the secret service on it, was mixed among other letters written by his men to their families. Thaler would recognize the sign the moment he saw it, and he would do the investigation as Roche asked.

The reply came a week later, disguised as a commandatory letter from the regency council. When Roche managed to reveal the true content of it and finished reading, he couldn't stop his face from twitching in anger.

"What is it?" Ves asked. "Why exactly is this taking so long?"

"The Nilfgaardians are not planning to take the city," Roche replied. "They've managed to show their absolute power to Vergen, and Saskia has already understood that there's no hope of victory for them."

"And so?"

"So, the Nilfgaardians want to use Saskia's reputation in Upper Aedirn and the nonhumans to help with the empire's rule. They've already negotiated a few times with her, and she will be made temporary governor of the Pontar Valley, for how long it's not yet determined. After her term, Vergen and Upper Aedirn will be returned to Nilfgaard. We've come here to fight for nothing!"

"Hush, Roche, keep your voice down," warned Ves. "And judging from your reaction, I'm going to stop you from seeking out Voorhis for a fight. We can't let them know we've investigated about this; who knows what will happen to Temeria?"

Roche took a deep breath, cooling down the heat in his head. "Yes ... yes, you're right. Let's keep it a secret. Our men will complain about the outcome ... fuck, we lost good soldiers in those woods!"

"Well, at least it's over now," comforted Ves.

"Yes ... it's over."

Iorveth wasn't going to die defending those wars; wasn't going to die in the hands of another. And who knows, perhaps this cooperation between Saskia and Nilfgaard could be a good thing. Encourage racial equality and all that. Maybe the Eternal Fire could be repressed a little after the establishment of this special district; the Order of the Flaming Rose in Vizima was getting madder and bolder every year. Someone needs to teach them a lesson.

The result was settled after a month. Roche's men complained about the outcome as expected, but nor could do anything more. Saskia was to serve as co-governor of Upper Aedirn with two Nilfgaardian colleagues for ten years. The Scoia'tael shall be pardoned, and Vergen would be rebuilt with the help of the empire. But Upper Aedirn would no in way be autonomous; Saskia must enforce Nilfgaardian laws. Taxes must be paid, and all obligations had to be fulfilled.

To celebrate the establishment of Upper Aedirn and "a new era of peace between humans and nonhumans," Field Marshal Morvran held a banquet in the castle of Hagge. It was in that castle that the once kings and queens of the Northern Kingdoms discussed the strategies against Nilfgaardian invasion. It was in that castle that a banquet celebrating Nilfgaardian victory would be held. And of course Roche and his men, as major participants of the way, were invited to join it.

The castle was not so far from Vergen, and they arrived there with little effort. The young marshal was apparently far more influential than they had imagined; almost all that was left of the noble lords of Aedirn had answered his invitation, and it seemed to Roche that Voorhis could actually call out the names of every one of them, which was quite astonishing. Among the soldiers that came from Temeria, only Roche, as the commander, was invited to join the lords and ladies in the halls. He had quite some complaints about it, but most of his men told him not to worry about it, and Ves offered to help him with the dressing on the day of the banquet.

"My goodness, Roche," she gasped a little as she looked into the mirror. "Did I ever tell you that you look really good in black?"

"You did," muttered Roche, fumbling at the sleeves. "Thank Melitele that they didn't send me one of those white collars."

He dressed in the Nilfgaardian fashion, clothes chosen and gifted to him by Nilfgaardian; everyone dressed in the Nilfgaardian fashion, to please the future emperor. His chaperone was taken off, and his hair was brushed with fragrant oil until it shone like molten chocolate. His jaw, clean shaven. His vest was dark blue velvet. His long jacket, trousers and boots were all black, with silvery patterns of flowers embroidered on the hems of his jacket, his sleeves and his collars. The buttons were wrought in the shape of Temerian lilies. And god it was annoying to see himself so filled out and fit. To hell with the fresh meat and vegetables and bread in Nilfgaardian military supplies.

"I look like a fucking ghost," complained Roche. "It's too black."

"You look like a fucking ghost because of those dark circles under your eyes, not the clothes," said Ves. "You barely slept ever since we got to Aedirn."

"But it's not gonna work! If I dress like lord while I'm not behaving or talking like one, it's just gonna be hilarious. I don't want to bring shame to Temeria."

"You won't, you never will, Roche. Anyway, you look very handsome. Just be confident, like King Foltest."

Roche fell silent upon hearing that name. Looking at himself in the mirror, he suddenly realized that he had reached Foltest's age when the king discovered him in the gutters. In that case, perhaps he would just pretend that all this black was him mourning for his late king.

"Come on, Roche. Go ahead."

"Right," he sighed, securing his silver badge of office around his neck. "Let's go."

Voorhis had invited Roche to sit at his side at the banquet. Among all the lords and ladies strolling around the hall in slow, idle steps, Roche walked like a gust of wind. Some cast him glances of scorn, others those of curiosity. Not a social man, he walked passed all of them, striding straight to Voorhis's side, exchanged formal greetings, and took his seat.

"Is there a representative of Vergen here today?" He aske Voorhis.

"Oh yes, of course. Lady Saskia has arrived herself."

"Who else, may I ask?"

"Let me see ... Commander Iorveth and Commander Yaevinn, I believe."

So he's here? Roche's eyes scanned the hall as food started to be served. He searched for green, and quickly found a target. The male figure in the corner was indeed as slender as an elf, but the green of his clothing was bright instead of dark, and on his face rested some sort of mask of shining gold instead of a simple red bandana. He moved across the hall with the elegance of a fox. Roche's heart thumped in his chest. The elf went to his two companions, one male with dark hair dressed in maroon, and one female with blonde hair dressed in crimson. It was indeed Iorveth.

They were too far away from each other for Roche to get a proper, but even with such distance he could tell that Iorveth looked ravishing. He had never see that dark hair cascading down those strong shoulders in that manner, nor did he ever imagine Iorveth wearing any kind of jewelry. He looked like an elven prince that walked straight out of some legendary love story ... in fact Roche couldn't remember was there really such a story, since almost all of them were about elven princesses instead of princes. But if there was an elven prince, then he must look like the way Iorveth was looking.

Roche's chest was as tight as a fist; out of joy or out of nervousness he couldn't say. Food was tasteless in his mouth and the flavor of wine was as blank as water. A strange heat gathered within him, and he felt hot though it was only early summer. He must go to Iorveth, need to go to Iorveth. But why, and how? What was he supposed to say? Roche was here to kill him, and although he failed, he had cut down many of Iorveth's soldiers, and he lost many of his own to Iorveth as well. Their old grudge should be rekindled by the blood that had flowed. He should be burning with hatred, not this strange passion.

But the moment Roche set eyes on Iorveth, he had understood that this would be his only reward for fighting this war. It was strange to put it that way, and Roche wasn't very sure why he thought so himself, but that was the simple truth. It didn't matter what words they would exchange, it didn't even matter if they ended up locked in a fight. The sight of Iorveth, the sound of his voice, the weight of gaze, the meaning of seeing an old nemeis that he understood and understood him so well, that was the best he could get. He must seize it, or this whole war would only be remembered as a pitiful experience of him being used by the Nilfgaardians as a tool.

He drained his cup of wine, and rose.

* * *

The gold felt creepily smooth and soft against the skin of his face. Even his bandana was rougher than the metal. The mask was a gift from the Field Marshal Morvran Voorhis, a token of friendship between Nilfgaard and the Scoia'tael, and Iorveth swore that he would never wear it again as long he lives.

Saskia had wished to have a dwarf accompany her, Cecil Burdon or Yarpen Zigrin, but they insisted to stay in Vergen and help with the reconstruction and food distribution, trusting the politics to Saskia. Iorveth had wanted Isengrim to come with them, but he refused, saying that Iorveth was the true commander of the Scoia'tael in Vergen and should be the representative. And here he was, a terrorist among a castle of warlords.

Most of the talking was left to Saskia and Yaevinn; Saskia was pleasant and honest while Yaevinn could make up for her lack of subtlety. None of them could smile genuinely, though. They knew very well in their hearts that this banquet was not a celebration of peace, but of their defeat.

If only Saskia could transform without concern ... Iorveth gritted his teeth. Saskia could unite the nonhumans, but Saesenthessis could've actually turned the tide of the war. The risk would still exist, but at least the Nilfgaardians wouldn't be so overwhelming. Damn the sorceress. Damn Philippa Eilhart and her vicious lodge.

And to hell with bloody Vernon Roche and his bloody tricks.

He was ready to die this time, taken by an arrow or the spike of some Nilfgaardian soldier. He had sworn that if the Nilfgaardian wanted to raze Vergen to the ground once again, it would be over his dead body. Now Vergen was safe, with even the help of Nilfgaardians to be rebuilt, yet he didn't get to have his glorious death. Instead he had to suffer defeat, again.

Most of his troubles had come from Vernon Roche -- at least before that Marshal Voorhis came along. He immediately realized that it was Roche behind the plots after listening to Vernossiel's report. Fighting Roche was far more tiring, both physically and mentally, but at least fighting Roche ... felt like a battle, a war, felt like facing an opponent. Against Nilfgaard, against the Marshal Morvran Voorhis with his endless power and wealth, he felt like a bug waiting to be crushed by the foot of a giant.

He waited silently in the corner of the hall, watching Saskia Yaevinn among the Aedirnian lords and Nilfgaardian officers. He had never seen Saskia in a dress before, and honestly speaking, the soft curves of a gown did not suit her, and she seemed to have no idea what to do with the heels of her shoes. As for Yaevinn and Iorveth, neither of them could recall if they had ever dressed so richly. The clothes were gifts from Nilfgaard, and they seemed to imitate the style of the elven nobles in Dol Blathanna ... which in a certain sense, made Iorveth felt old. Worst of all, he felt naked. The flowing emerald gauze and pearly white brocade were beautiful, and the golden flowery patterns were delicately embroidered, but it was too loose for a soldier like him.

When the beginning of the banquet drew near, strange footsteps suddenly sounded from an entrance in the hall. They were powerful and quick ones, forming a contrast to the soft steps of lords and ladies. The sounds were ghastly familiar to Iorveth's ears, so he turned towards the direction, and saw a tall brunette man in black and silver striding across the hall like a gust of dark wind, taking the seat at the same table as Marshal Voorhis.

Iorveth was suddenly stricken dumb for no reason. He studied the outlines of that man's body, the shape of the shoulders and waist, the jaw. Deep down in his heart he had realized something, but somehow his brain seemed to be refusing to accept it, whatever it was.

His heart was beating frantically, and he was confused, annoyed. He calmed his breaths as much as he could, turning his eyes to Saskia and Yaevinn instead. He joined him when they were finished with the socializing, and Saskia sighed as soon as she saw him.

"I never knew talking could be so tiring," said Saskia. "I don't understand why they could make conversations so ... inefficiently flowery."

"Inefficiently flowery. What an accurate description," agreed Yaevinn. "It pains me to say it, my lady, but I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it. These are the kind of the people we must deal with in the future. Monarchs do not need eloquence, and peasants simply don't know what eloquence is. But these lords, trapped in between the common people and the supreme power, have enough pride to be annoying yet not enough pride to be dignified."

"What's wrong, Iorveth?" Saskia asked, noticing Iorveth's absent-mindedness. "You look pale."

"No, nothing. It's just ... the clothes are a bit troubling."

Saskia had that guilty look on her face again. Among all the people in Vergen, she was perhaps the one with heaviest burden on her shoulders. On one hand she held responsible for their failure, because she couldn't tranform into a dragon to balance the power; on the other hand, it was because of the people's fear for her that she chose to remain in human form. Many dwarves, humans and even elves were afraid of being affected by dragon flame in battle, and some even planned to desert out of that fear, deeming it too dangerous to side with Saskia. Iorveth could do nothing to comfort her.

"They say that Roche is here as well," said Yaevinn. "I didn't see him, though ... or anyone that looks like him."

Strangely, Iorveth found his gaze drifting once again to that man in black and silver. This time their eyes met, and Iorveth felt the painfully familiar sensation of being locked on by hot stare. His spine shivered, and he didn't know why. It was just a Nilfgaardian lord, and perhaps not a very high lord, judging from the simplicity of his clothing and the not very elegant way he behaved. Probably an officer that won the Marshal's favor during the war. Nothing special.

But Iorveth was troubled, and kept on being troubled. The more he observed that man, he more he lost his apetite for food and wine. He could hardly hear what Saskia and Yaevinn were saying. At a certain point that man rose from his seat, walking around the table and across the floor, straight towards the place where Iorveth and his companions stood.

All three of them fell silent as the man approached. Iorveth stared numbly as the man stopped short a few steps away from them, looking straight into Iorveth's eyes. Iorveth could recognize everything except for that dark brown hair; the furrowed brows, the prominent nose, the harsh lips and the nasolabai folds that added to his solemnity. But it took him what felt like a decade to finally put all those recognitions together and squeezed the name out of the lump in his throat.

"Vernon Roche."

The man raised a brow. "You recognize me just now?"

Iorveth had no idea how to face him. Here he was, in this ridiculous outfit of an outdated old elf, with a golden trinket on his face as if he was some kind of pretty doll, while Roche had this silvery halo around his body like laurels of cold victory. He was even more imposing in black, with the face of a preying hawk. There was a terrible beauty about his melancholy majesty, as if he was some kind of herald of death or tragic fate, which in a certain sense, was quite an accurate description of Roche.

"Well, well, this is unexpected," said Yaevinn. "I didn't recognize that it was you, Commander Roche, since I believe the commander of the Blue Stripes must be wearing blue, instead of Nilfgaardian black. Perhaps you've changed the name of your special forces?"

Roche flashed Yaevinn a cold glance, "I am not here to mock or to be mocked."

Yaevinn opened his mouth again, but Saskia interuppted him on time. "No. This should be a day of peace. It is best that we have mutual respect for each other, Commander, since from now on we are on the same side."

"Indeed. Congratulations, Lady Saskia, for Upper Aedirn is now yours."

"You know very well that it's not true," said Iorveth coldly.

"It's the best you can hope for," Roche replied. "It could be worse. Far worse."

"We understand, and that's why we chose peace and compromise over war and destruction," said Saskia. "As did you, Commander."

"Yes," said Roche, almost like a murmur. "As did me."

"Why are you here, Roche?" Iorveth asked. "What business do you have with us? Your Temeria will not be bothered by the Scoia'tael anymore."

"It's not that simple, is it? This lady just said we're on the same side. Shouldn't we get to know each other more, lay down old grudges and make peace?"

"Don't tell me you buy into that Nilfgaardian propaganda."

"None of the people in this room does. But they're putting up a show, and perhaps so can we."

"What's the point? In the end, it's all useless. I'd rather not delve into dh'oine tricks, unless someday I make the terrible mistake of being fooled by them."

"And so you don't have to do any socializing, do you? Leaving all the boring things to your liege, while you sit around during peace and only move your arse when war breaks out? That can hardly be called loyalty, Iorveth. Perhaps you've stayed a rebel for too long to remember what such a thing is."

"I don't foolishly give my loyalty to unworthy kings."

Anger flashed in Roche's eyes, but it didn't explode. "Now you've given it to one you deem worthy, and still you wouldn't contribute to peace?"

"You're contributing to peace, aren't you? Seems to me that you're only here to mock and be mocked, to borrow your own words."

"And also seems to be enjoying it," commented Yaevinn.

Iorveth smirked. "See? Your vile intention is apparent to all. Now, if you would excuse me, _Commander_ , I ... "

"I'm not just talking about him," Yaevinn interrupted.

Iorveth looked at him in confusion, and Yaevinn seemed to be irritated by exactly his confusion.

"What, are you doing, Iorveth?" Yaevinn said in a low whisper.

Iorveth suddenly realized that his companions had been watching them argue in silence for ... quite some time. Saskia was staring at him with big, curious eyes, and something told Iorveth that it was the first time he ignored Saskia for so long when she's present. Yaevinn's gaze was shifting between him and Roche, and he suddenly seemed realized something.

"My lady," Yaevinn said to Saskia. "We should probably ... leave our good commander alone with his old ... acquaintance."

"Ye ... yes, you have a point, but ... "

"I'm sure they will behave with dignity, as befit their age and status. And please, we have no obligation to be considered nonexistent while still existing in their little space."

Yaevinn dragged a confused Saskia away, leaving Iorveth and Roche in embarrassing silence.

"Well," grunted Roche. "That was ... immature."

Iorveth knew he was talking about their previous argument instead of Yaevinn, and reluctantly agreed. "No, it wasn't."

"Anyway, if we're to keep going, I'm not going to do it here. These candles are suffocating."

They were. Night has fallen, so candles had been lit on every long table, and though the lords and ladies might be used to them, that was not the case for Iorveth and Roche who lived their entire life in battlefields or forests. "Agreed. Let's get out of this place."

The courtyard of Hagge was far from a fine garden, but it was quickly cleaned up and maintained for the banquet. From there they could see the tents and pavillions outside the walls, and the soldiers feasting and drinking and playing Gwent, accompanied by Nilfgaardian and Northern songs. They kept their footsteps soft and quiet as they stepped on the grass, as was their mutual habit. The buttons of silver lilies on Roche's jacket shimmered in the night as he moved, and for a moment the Temerian emblem almost seemed pretty in Iorveth's eyes.

Walking with Roche was unnatural -- never happened before -- but it didn't feel wrong. Roche's attention was briefly drawn to the camp beneath, but he quickly turned to Iorveth once again, only to let out a low huff. "It suits you," he said, pointing at Iorveth's mask.

"I fucking hate it. I feel like a puppet."

"You don't have to feel like one. You are. We all are," Roche shurgged. "But it suits you, it really does."

"And black suits you as well," said Iorveth, and oddly enough, it was actually genuine.

Roche chuckled bitterly. "Ves told me the same thing."

"I never ran into her these few months," this reminded Iorveth something, something like a complaint he had in heart. "Nor you. Not even once. How come that we've never met each other?"

"They fear that a single arrow would be enough to take their precious living pack of experience from them."

"Well, they've got a point, if that arrow comes from my bow."

Fiery light in the hall came through the windows, illuminating Roche's face, lending some warmth to his somber form and hard features. Finally he looked like a man instead of laurelled champion coming to claim his prize; but with the distance between them remarkably shortened, Roche's presence was more imposing than ever before. Iorveth could smell the wine lingering on his sleeves and the scent of the oil in his hair, and he could feel the human warmth radiating from the lively fresh beneath those layers of leather and velvet. He couldn't stop his gaze from trailing down to the strong hips, and even lower to the slender calves wrapped in leather boots.

Iorveth quickly turned away, resting a hand on the branch of a withered tree; the night breeze blew at his light raiments, and he felt naked again, his unspeakable thoughts no where to be hidden. It only got worse as the silence continued, because he suddenly realized that Roche was staring at his fingers gripping the branch, and then the veins on the back of his hand, and then the wrist bound by golden wrappings.

Realizing that Iorveth had noticed his staring, Roche cleared his throat and moved his eyes from him. "Who is to be Saskia's co-governor?" He asked, in hopes of leading their conversation from endless mocks to something meaningful.

"Tavar Eggebracht," replied Iorveth, feeling relief from the change of topic as well, "and Berengar Leuvaarden. They'll serve for the first five years."

He saw a slight twitch on Roche's face. "Racists?" Iorveth asked.

"No. Nifgaardians are rarely racist, but don't have high hopes for these two. Eggebracht only cares about the interest of the Emperor, and Leuvaarden the interest of the Guild of Merchants. I suppose Emhyr chose them to balance his power with the Guild's."

"Any suggestions about how to deal with them?"

It wasn't a very wise question; Roche had no obligation to provide suggestions, and he might as well make Iorveth's life more miserable by telling this conversation to Voorhis or any Nilfgaardian lord. But Roche answered him without second thoughts, and in detail.

"Eggebracht is dutiful, but do not expect him to do anything for moral reasons; he will only consider a proposal if it's beneficial to the empire. If saving your lives is not, he will simply not do it. The only way to persuade him into doing anything is to bring up the interest of the empire. Leuvaarden will not allow any chance for any business of yours to thrive. His goal, his only goal, is to expand the market for Nilfgaardian merchants, which means forcing you buy their goods. Buy them as he wish, but don't let him touch your land; if he manage to set up factories, the future of your own businesses is done for. Save the resources for yourselves, wait until five years later. Negotiate with the dwarven bankers, don't let them loan money to Leuvaarden to buy lands. You have a branch of the Vivaldi there, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Be nice to the employees. Threaten them when it doesn't work, but make sure to protect them. You're a terrorist, you know what to do."

Iorveth snorted. "Indeed I do."

Roche nodded. "And be careful with the Eternal Fire. They're everywhere these days."

"I don't need your reminder to do that."

"Listen, Iorveth," Roche focused his eyes on him. "Nilfgaard will not stop them, not now, at least. The Lodge is still out there somewhere, and Emhyr wanted to use the Church to destroy them. Even if he had his way at last and decided the fanatics aren't needed anymore, the Church won't go down so easily. They've grown too powerful."

"Aren’t you the one that's so supposed to be careful? Yes, we have fanatics in Upper Aedirn, but if I recall correctly, the headquarters of the Order is in Vizima."

"Vizima is not a city full of nonhumans."

Iorveth cursed in a whisper. "Bloede dh'oine."

"Careful now. Nilfgaardians can understand that."

"I've said that to Nilfgaardians before," before they were shipped to Dillingen.

"Suit yourself, then," shrugged Roche. "It's none of my business now."

They were silent for a while, and then Iorveth asked. "So, what've you been doing lately? Must be boring, without elves or Nilfgaardians to kill."

"I don't kill elves or Nilfgaardians. I kill whoever is the enemy of my liege."

"I heard that bastard daughter of Foltest is queen now."

"Yes," Roche narrowed his eyes, fires burning in them again. "Her name's Anaïs, and you will address her as Her Majesty."

"She's your liege, not mine."

"Then you better not bring her up again, because that Lady Saskia looks like a good person to me, and I don't want to be disrespectful to her just to provoke you into a fistfight in the middle of a party held by the next Emperor of Nilfgaard."

"Fine, fine," growled Iorveth, irritated. "Then who've you been killing?"

"This may sound bizarre but, I didn't kill many people these years, except for occassional assassins. Enough people die of the plague or on pyres every day."

"Complicated, isn't it? To save people instead of killing them."

Roche gave him a harmless glare. "Yes."

"You must be quite popular now. The hope of Temeria, the queenmaker."

"On the contrary. Most Temerians consider me a traitor."

"You?" Iorveth made a huff of disbelief. "A traitor?"

"They say I sold the country to Nilfgaard."

"Typical dh'oine," said Iorveth in sudden distaste. "Blame the one that bleeds while they enjoy the result."

"And you must be the hero of Vergen, I believe."

"No. The humans still see me as a terrorist, the dwarves are still dwarves, my people are tired of fighting Nilfgaard, and all of them blame me for concealing Saskia's identity."

Roche sighed almost inaudibly. "At the end, what have we got?"

"The best we can hope for," said Iorveth, borrowing Roche's words.

Inside the halls, the lords and ladies were dancing to merry music, and here beneath the dim stars, all they could do was pour out their grievances to their nemesis. They've dreamt, fought and failed, and they didn't even have a share of what was left.

"So," said Iorveth, breaking the silence. "What plans do you have? For the future?"

"Deal with domestic matters. They're already too many and too specific to need plans."

"I mean your future."

Roche blinked and thought for a moment. "Guess I'll listen to my queen's advice and do something about that terrible reputation of mine. It's a bit inconvenient, to have to shun the streets of Vizima all the time."

"Yes ... so should I, probably. Saskia doesn't need a terrorist at her side to make things worse."

"It'll take a long time. You've haunted generations, and it will take generations for humans to forget about the past."

"Fortunately I don't have the lifespan of ... "

"Enough," Roche stopped him on time, but not in a harsh tone. "Enough, Iorveth."

Oddly enough, both of their shoulders started to relax, and the tension between them eased just a little. Roche's hard features seemed to soften, and the silver lilies on his clothing weren't so coldly glorious anymore. Iorveth swallowed a little, and stood up straight. "I should go back to Saskia."

"I suppose you won't be leaving Vergen within quite some time after you return."

"Certainly not."

Roche fixed his eyes on Iorveth's face, and Iorveth held the gaze, locked in the sudden competition. Then Roche reached for him with a hand, stopping mid-way to observe his reaction; when Iorveth didn't move, he proceeded, taking the golden mask from Iorveth's face.

"Since you don't like it, I'll keep it for you."

Roche tucked the mask into his jacket, and strode towards the hall.

Iorveth touched his empty socket, now exposed to the night air, resisting the urge to cover it up with his hand like a shy maiden covering up her breasts. His hair was a little disheveled from the removal of the mask, and the warmth of Roche's fingertips lingered ghostly on his skin.

They rode for Vergen the next morning. When he turned his head around on horseback, he saw that familiar blue again on the battlements, watching the company of Vergen taking their leave of Hagge. Iorveth mouthed a silent "va fáill," and caught up with Saskia at the front.

"I'm surprised that you and Commander Roche didn't end up in a fight," said Saskia.

"Well, we almost did."

"I still remember the first time you describe him to me. You said a more determined demon has never walked upon this earth. I'm still curious about how you look at him, because you don't seem to have that scorn for him that you have for humans."

"Vernon is too dangerous a foe to be considered a common human. That's all."

"That's all? Iorveth, you know very well there are more dangerous people than him. Kings, generals, fanatics, emperors ... but you see them as no different than the beggars."

"Why do you ask?" Iorveth said impatiently.

"Because I want to help you," said Saskia, earnestly. "You're not well accepted in Vergen, that's not what I want to see. I'll strive to make the people acknowledge you, but you cannot just do nothing. That's why I'm trying to find a way for you to make peace with humans. I know you've always hated them, but you've also accepted Vergen as a place of coexistence. There has to be a way, Iorveth."

"Perhaps there is, but you'll certainly not find it in Vernon Roche."

"On the contrary, I think I can only find it in Vernon Roche. I've never seen or heard you treat a human like this. Yarpen told me that you wish to die in his hands."

Iorveth chocked on the water as he drank from his bottle.

"He told me you said that when you were complaining about Marshal Voorhis cutting off our supplies," continued Saskia. "You said you hope Vernon Roche has enough guts to come up to the walls and lop off your head before you starve to death, according to Yarpen, at least. Is it true?"

Unfortunately, it was. To borrow words from Roche, again, impending death had addled his mind. He had retreated back into the city at that point, guarding the walls day and night knowing it was of no use, and started, in his delirium of shame and useless rage, reminiscing his old days in the forest near Flotsam. Yaevinn was telling them a story he heard from a late colleague called Toruviel, about the elven noble Filavandrel living in the barren peaks of the Blue Mountains, suffering from starvation to the point of needing to steal seeds from human villages to learn how to farm, and in the end relinquished the act and swore to someday come down from the peaks to die in glory. And Iorveth couldn't help but thought about Roche after he heard the story, and their duel back on the forest clearing. There's nothing glorious about what Roche used to do, but somehow Iorveth thought that he wouldn't regret dying in Roche's hands.

"You think it's possible," Iorveth said in a murmur, "for an elf like me to have peace?"

"I'll be honest with you, Iorveth. Nothing will whitewash your deeds, even if you have your reasons. But that's exactly why we gathered in Vergen, to stop the meaningless hatred. Of course I can say that you cannot have peace, because that's the result of reality. However, Vergen is not a place we build because we think realistically. Realistically, all the nonhumans are going extinct under human rule, yet we defy that. Can you have peace? Perhaps not, but all of us are fighting for a dream, and maybe you should give it a try as well."

"And I should start with reflecting upon my relationship with Vernon Roche?" Iorveth huffed.

"If he's the human you respect the most, then yes."

"I can't possibly have respect for Roche. He hates nonhumans!"

"Does he? He seemed quite polite when he talked to me."

True, just as Roche said, he didn't hate nonhumans. He just hated everyone that stood in the way of his liege. It was this determination that made Iorveth respect him, the relentless stubborness of insisting on a single goal, and willing to pay any price for it. Roche was far from the most respectable person for an elf, but he and Iorveth were too much alike. And Iorveth hated himself as well, to some extent, so perhaps he truly did respect Roche.

They returned to Vergen to be welcomed with eyes filled with cold fear, some for Iorveth, and some for Saskia. Even though the elves were the ones that bled for the city, many of the inhabitants, humans or nonhumans, still found the Nilfgaardians more pleasant. At least they weren't terrorists, or fire breathing monsters, some would say. Saskia's words on the road were cheering, but when reality hit, it still hurt. His own people shun him in the streets as he was on patrol duty, and although he had his soldiers to talk to, it simply wasn't enough.

One night, when he sat by the fire in a tavern with Isengrim, he asked. "How did you come to care so much for the human that protected you?"

"You've answered the question yourself," said Isengrim. "Because Dijkstra protected me."

"But how? After Drakenborg ... after Dillingen?"

"I suppose that's why our kin in the Valley of Flowers call us youths," Isengrim smiled bitterly. "Because we just cannot come to terms with anything."

"Come to terms with what?"

"With the fact that you're infatuated with that Vernon Roche you kept talking about. No, don't interrupt. I'm just being honest. And there's nothing to be ashamed of, Iorveth. Think about it this way: who knows how many times these northern kingdoms had gone to war with each other, yet all their monarchs were in fact related by blood."

Iorveth started blushing for no reason. Probably because the "related by blood" actually meant "they marry each other." He suddenly recalled how Roche took the golden mask from him, and blushed even harder.

Came to think of it, Roche was perhaps working on the same thing far away in Vizima. Iorveth would let him surpass in this, in anything. And so he gathered himself, and started trying once again.

The city was in reconstruction, and although fear for Saskia's identity still existed, nonhumans were attracted by the freedom and safety promised by Vergen, most of them fleeing from the witch hunters. Isengrim was reunited with the elven tailor Elihal that offered him protection in Novigrad. When Iorveth patrolled in the streets one day, he found a new forge opened by a elf, which was a rare thing in a dwarven city.

Out of pure curiosity, he walked into the shop and found himself welcomed by a dark-haired elven smith with a kind face. "Hello there!" The elf probably didn't know who he was. "You're one of the Scoia'tael, right? What can I be of service? Maybe need some polishing with that blade on your belt?"

"No, I'm sorry," Iorveth was a little helpless, basked suddenly in that unusual hospitality towards him. "Just checking out. Never seen this shop before."

"That's alright. If you need any help, sharpen your swords or need new arrowheads, come to me anytime! I'm familiar with elves weapons."

"May I ask your name?"

"Éibhear Hattori, a pleasure to meet you," said the smith with a Redanian accent. "And you?"

"Iorveth."

"Oh," for a moment Iorveth thought he's going to see that familiar cold fear again, but Éibhear just seemed a little nervous. "My goodness ... I mean, you're a legend in Novigrad. Can't believe I'm seeing you in person!"

"You come from Novigrad."

"Had a shop there. Used to go well ... had some problems, but they were fixed, and the business was actually good. But I fear more for my life, so..."

"Why didn't you go south, to Nilfgaard? It might be better there."

"Perhaps. But I heard about your fights, and I was fascinated. Nilfgaard may be nice, but ... it's always good to be with one's kin. Figure I should do what I can to support your cause, now that the war's over."

Something moved within Iorveth upon hearing those words. "Thank you. I'm very grateful."

"Oh no, I'm the one that should be grateful. You're brave men, all of you."

They quickly formed a friendship, and although many still feared Iorveth, walking in the streets didn't feel so miserable anymore. The city was recovering, with more and more inhabitants pouring in every day, seeking for homes or dreams. There were occasional conflicts, but Vergen was peaceful in general, and prospering.

A few months after they returned from Hagge, a new shop selling paintings was opened in the Rhundurin Square. The owner of the shop was Spark, and Iorveth knew that she had been saving money for this ever since she came to Vergen. When Iorveth passed the shop one day, casting a curious glance inside, a certain word immediately caught his attention. He stopped to take a closer look, and went stiff right there.

It was a picture of him and Roche in the courtyard of Hagge. For the man and elf in the picture, no detail was gotten right except for the general colors, and Iorveth was probably mistaken for a human, but the atmosphere was captured beautifully. The background was the hall with all the fiery lights away from them, and Iorveth was leaning on a tree, looking up at the stars with his golden mask glittering, as Roche simply looked at him.

"Spark," he called out. "This ... where did you get the inspiration from?"

"Oh, that one!" The elven girl's face flushed in embarassement. "I ... that one is ... "

"Speak," he realized something. "Were you at Hagge? You're not a Scoia'tael, how is it that you came to know what the castle look like?"

"I ... " Spark was afraid to even look at him. "I was ... really curious about what human banquets look like ... so I had a friend of mine took me with him ... "

"A Scoia'tael?"

"Yes ... please don't punish him, it was my request!"

"Calm down, girl, I'm not blaming anyone. Go on, tell me about this painting."

"I couldn't go into the main hall ... so my friend borrowed a telescope from an Nilfgaardian officer for me. And I saw this."

"You know who they are?"

"No. I just saw a vague picture, and I thought it was marvellous, so ... "

So that's why all the details were wrong. "Is it for sale?" It was already too late to regret the question after he asked.

"Ye ... yes. You like it?"

Iorveth took a deep breath. He struggled for a few minutes, and almost managed to persuade himself not to buy it, until he lowered his head and saw the way Roche's eyes were focused on him in the painting again.

"I'll take it."


End file.
